


Take the L Train

by weytani



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weytani/pseuds/weytani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like anything short of a bullet would keep this woman from amusing herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the L Train

The subway car rattles as she steps through the doors, nudged forward by an impatient collection of limbs from either side. It’s getting well into summer and most of Manhattan seems to be at the end of an already short string of patience, especially down in the sticky heat of the New York underground.

Shaw herself has long since ripped that string to pieces. The cosmetics gig is one thing, but _this_ -

She thinks, sourly, of the handgun strapped to her thigh, hidden just out of sight beneath the dress they'd stuffed her into for that joke of an undercover job. A single movement and she could have it out, and the sweaty crowd bearing down on her would draw back like a foul-smelling tide at the beach. Obviously, she can’t use it down here, and even having it on display isn't a viable option for someone trying to keep a low profile. But the thought keeps her at ease for a while.

This is her second day taking the subway and still no action. Impatient, she tries putting her weight onto her toes to get a better view through the train car. Their new number is sitting not too far away, face hidden behind the New York Times. But she knows it’s him, having followed the guy three blocks from his apartment, past the stand he'd bought that same newspaper from and down onto the platform.

Tyler Prescott, just your average working-class businessman. Nothing particularly exciting in his background, or at least nothing there to hint at a villainous origin story. He has a wife, no kids, small apartment in a semi-decent neighbourhood. Takes the same train to work every day, and that means Shaw has to as well.

She curses The Machine for the whole experience. Usually they can observe the number from within their workspace, or at least from a car across the street. Apparently Root had made contact with Finch and instructed them to pay special attention to this part of Prescott's day. Shaw knows The Machine isn't passing along information directly anymore, so how she'd reached that conclusion is a mystery. Still, the mission is what it is.

John is off playing cop-mentor somewhere, and the department store she works at isn't far from their number's office block. So, lucky her, she gets the short straw.

The train car smells like a balled up sock scraped out of someone’s long-abandoned gym locker, and having so many people this close is making her muscles tense up. If someone pulls a knife at this range, she’ll be hard-pressed to see it coming. Her fingers wrap tightly around the metal pole in front of her, just to keep her hands away from the piece under her dress.

Patience. Control.

A drop of sweat slides down her neck.

Even in such a confined area, she can tell that the person behind her is standing much closer than they need to be. Shaw feels their breath warming the back of her neck. She takes a step forward, moving away as much as possible without getting too close to the woman standing in front of her, staring listlessly at her phone.

Seconds later, breasts are pressing into Shaw’s back. It seems like half a metre of space is asking too much down here.

Three more stops left until she can get out.

Three stops too many, she decides, when the stranger leans in even closer, nudging their nose against Shaw’s right ear in a way that can only be considered affectionate. Long hair brushes the back of her neck. A hand settles on her waist. Shaw’s fingers skim over the butt of her gun before she hears Root’s voice, husky and familiar, whispering to her softly from behind.

“Time and place, Sameen.”

Shaw quells any kind of responsive shiver to Root’s breath against her already overheated skin. She doesn't move her hand from the firearm, just slides her fingers over it a little more purposefully. It’s not like she’s about to pull it out or anything. Probably. But the suggestion is there for Root to see, and maybe this time it will act as some kind of deterrent.

Black fingernails dig into her sides, pulling her back against Root's chest once again. A huff of quiet laughter from somewhere to her right.

Of course. Like anything short of a bullet would keep this woman from amusing herself.

“See that woman in front of you? She's a police officer. Off-duty, but...” Root trails off, open mouth pressed against the helix of her ear. “I'd hate for you to get in trouble.”

So she says. But as the fingers at her waist curl and uncurl over her dress, rucking it up just a little more each time, Shaw is getting a different impression. She lets go of the gun anyway, moving her hand back over to the pole with the other one.

The mission comes first. That’s all. Anything too overt goes down in here, the number could hightail it at the next stop and leave her hanging between a rock and a hard place.

Well, she muses, as a lean thigh settles against the curve of her ass. Maybe hard isn't the right word. Shaw lets Root mould herself against her back, allows the warm palm that slides from waist to stomach in one slow, smooth motion.

Root is wearing pants today, expensive ones from the feel of it. The material is almost cool against the hot skin below the hem of her dress.

Shaw wonders, in passing, about the contents of Root's one-and-done wardrobe. It seems like every time she comes to check in on her, Root is clad in a new dress, a new disguise. Like a brand new person dropping by to eye her up over twenty shades of the same colour of lipstick.

Does she dress up for the others too? Or maybe that’s her gift to Shaw; another way to push and pull her in no particular direction. Keeping her distracted, under control. A dog on a leash. The thought makes her teeth grind.

Not that she's been the only one taking away from the whole experience. Shaw has some pretty satisfying memories from the stockroom at Bloomingdale's, ones she likes to relive every now and then when things get particularly slow behind the counter.

Root bent forward over a messy worktable, nails tearing at the wooden surface while Shaw fucks her roughly from behind. Underwear stretched between spread legs, bridged between her knees. Gone completely by the time she leaves the store.

Yeah. Shaw doesn't mind that part.

As if sensing her fluctuating mood, Root steps up her game in real-time. She draws a hand up from Shaw’s stomach to cup one of her breasts through the dress. Shaw tilts her head to the left when the tip of Root’s tongue slides over the curve of her ear, and smirks just within Root’s line of sight.

An invitation to continue, for now. Root seems to get the idea; Shaw feels her lips curl up into that self-satisfied grin. She bites Shaw’s ear playfully, pawing at her chest in lazy strokes.

Shaw wonders how far this will go, how far she’s going to let it go. Sex at her day-job is one thing, but this is real work. Machine work. Root won’t compromise that for a quick fuck on the subway, so whatever is going on with Mr. New York Times over there obviously isn’t a real cause for concern. She lets herself relax under Root’s ministrations.

The train shakes as it pulls into the next station, and as various bodies filter out through the open doors, Root moves her hands back to less conspicuous areas but doesn’t let go. The old crowd makes way for a new one, and Shaw makes the most of what little breeze she can take in from the underground platform before it’s lost once again.

“Getting off?” Root murmurs, and Shaw’s eyes make their usual rounds at the double entendre. Not at this rate, she thinks drily.

Another stream of people trickle into the carriage, forcing them both further back against the opposite doors. Root moves away from her, and Shaw wonders if the game is over already. She isn’t anywhere near worked up enough to be disappointed, but there’s a certain thrill about doing it in public. It’s a shame that Root is far too vocal for Shaw to make a similar move down here.

(A shame for these circumstances at least. Harold doesn’t much like leaving them alone together in the abandoned subway, but sometimes the call of heroism – or John, same difference – drags him away by his fancy tie, and Root can make as much noise as she needs to.

As for the stockroom, well, Shaw makes good use of the material provided at the time.)

But Root doesn’t seem to be leaving the train. Instead, she steps to the left of Shaw, and Shaw turns her head to make eye contact. The look on Root’s face is just sly enough to be reassuring.

This is going somewhere. She just doesn’t know where yet.

The doors snap shut, and immediately Root is on her again, breasts rubbing uncomfortably against her bicep as slender fingers settle on her lower back. Root stops there for a moment, drawing little circles at the base of Shaw’s spine with her index finger.

The gesture is too intimate for Shaw’s liking, so she glares at Root and leans away. The arm she has half-trapped between them rears back to push her fingers aside, but Root’s other hand snaps up, closing around Shaw’s wrist and pulling it back down. Shaw scowls.

It’s not like she has a problem with being restrained for sexual reasons, but there is a time factor here. If she wants to get Shaw off on a moving train, fine ( _good_ even), but Shaw doesn’t have the patience for this drawn-out foreplay. Not when she has a number to chase off the train just two stops away.

Root holds onto her arm, thumbnail scraping the inside of her wrist teasingly. The hand on Shaw’s back slides down, stopping briefly over the curve of her ass before sliding up under the dress. Root strokes the backs of Shaw’s thighs with her palm as she presses herself against Shaw’s hand.

 _Now we’re getting somewhere,_ Shaw brightens, inching her feet a little further apart in anticipation.

Root’s breath hitches noticeably at the movement, and Shaw bites back a frustrated grunt when she moves again, letting go of Shaw’s arm to stand directly in front of her. When Root’s face comes fully into view, Shaw feels herself grin at the way Root’s eyes are focused on her. It’s the same look she often gets when things get hot and heavy between them, like she’s zeroing in on Shaw through the scope of a rifle, poised to shoot at any moment. Definitely a step up from the sickly sweet affection Root throws her way from time to time.

Under her dress, both of Root’s hands push against her legs just below her underwear, dragging Shaw closer than is strictly comfortable in the stifling heat. Root bites her lip, eyes flickering from Shaw’s eyes to her mouth in a fluctuating pattern. Like she can’t decide between kissing Shaw or admiring her from a distance. It’s happening a lot lately, the staring, the public displays of… this.

Not that Shaw is completely averse, she decides, eyelids dropping minutely as Root’s hand dips down the back of her underwear. Shaw lifts her hands to Root’s sides, hooking both thumbs in the belt loops of her pants.

She glances over Root’s shoulder, remembering exactly where they are and why. Her mind clears a little as she looks from face to face. Nobody is paying attention to them. Or to anything in particular really. It’s still early; most people don’t have Shaw’s level of alertness first thing in the morning.

Either way, with her back to the unused doors and Root’s taller body covering her from view, they’re unlikely to get caught.

The thought is a little sobering. Risk is all part of the fun.

And the number…

Shaw has to crane her neck a little to catch sight of him. Prescott is standing now, a little old lady squeezed into the seat he’s just vacated. Yeah, this guy doesn’t strike her as a wannabe criminal, and she likes to think of herself as a pretty good judge of character.

Root leans down, pressing her lips to the corner of Shaw’s mouth, apparently having given up admiring in favour of taking back Shaw’s attention. She squeezes Shaw’s ass with one hand while the other tugs at the edge of her underwear.

Shaw turns her head to brush their mouths together and Root sighs into the kiss, only to duck away when Shaw tries for something deeper. Shaw smirks through gritted teeth. _Annoying_. She tries to pull back and glare, but Root nuzzles at her hairline, fingers slipping between her legs as if in apology.

Root has an irritating amount of height on her. She has to lean forward bodily, forcing Shaw’s back to arch against the train doors, grinding their hips together, to get her hand where they both want it.

With the pad of her middle finger, she strokes Shaw through her underwear, tracing up and down her labia as she rocks her hips in time with the train’s swaying movements. Root’s other hand clenches around the cotton at Shaw’s thigh, bunching it in her hand so it stretches against Shaw’s sex, and increases the pressure with her finger so Shaw can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the material. Over and over, Root strokes her with one finger, and then two, stopping just short of her clit each time, even as Shaw boosts herself onto her toes and spreads her legs to make room.

She’s practically begging for it but Root just smiles against the side of her face, and Shaw doesn’t need to look to know how much the other woman is enjoying her frustration. Well, Shaw has her limits.

Slowly, she unhooks her fingers from Root’s belt loops and slides a hand between them, reaching under her own dress to cup herself, fingertips brushing Root’s lightly, meaningfully. The message is clear, “do it now or I will.”

Around them, the carriage shudders to a stop for the second time and Root exhales, disappointed. Shaw almost bites straight through her lip when she pulls her hand away this time. She rubs her thighs together as Root turns to look over her shoulder at the passengers shuffling noisily around the train car, waiting impatiently for the damn doors to close so they can get on with it.

The next stop is Prescott’s. Already, she can see him adjusting his jacket, looking at his watch as he moves his weight from one foot to the other. Apparently Shaw isn’t the only one running out of patience. The heat is stifling, almost dizzying, but the sensations between her legs are far more distracting.

Five seconds pass, the doors snap shut. A man to the right of her jabs an elbow into Shaw’s side without even looking at her, and Root’s eyes burn into him as she presses her cheek against Shaw’s slick forehead. Shaw draws back and headbutts her none too gently in the jaw to make her focus.

They have about five minutes to finish what they’ve started and she isn’t going to let Root waste that time playing the loyal guard dog, defending honour that she probably doesn’t have.

“Hurry.” she hisses, teeth bared in frustration.

Root doesn’t need another push. She gestures for Shaw to turn around once again and Shaw complies, looking at their reflections in the darkened window. Root meets her gaze, head tilted in that faux innocent way of hers as she moves Shaw’s underwear aside and quickly buries two fingers into her, curling them brutally in the wet heat.

Taken by surprise, Shaw can only arch forward in Root’s arms and bite back the noises as they build in her throat. Root’s thumb skids over her clit, rubbing down and around while she presses soft kisses to the back of Shaw’s neck. With one hand tucked between Shaw’s legs, pulling the orgasm from her at a ruthless pace, Root fists the other in the dress at her waist, probably wrinkling it to hell.

The damn floor supervisor will shake his head at her, again, and question her professionalism, _again_ , but the only thing on Shaw’s mind at this moment is the edge of the line that’s fast approaching and how soon she’ll be able to drag Root down along with her.

Her eyes struggle to stay open against the onslaught of Root’s affections, and in the brief instances that they manage it, all she sees is Root’s reflection in the window, features sharp and hungry as she watches Shaw gasp for breath. The temperature in the carriage feels like it’s rising up and up with every movement of Root’s fingers inside of her. With Root’s arm around her waist and Root’s whole front plastered against her back from chest to thigh, Shaw feels like she’s going to melt right into her.

Her head drops back against Root’s shoulder, and if she were anyone but herself, maybe she’d be a little more concerned with how unattractive she must look- face dripping sweat and open-mouthed with ecstasy. But she’s herself, and so she bares her teeth at the reflection and latches a shaky hand around Root’s wrist, dragging her nails across pink skin until white lines track across her forearm.

Root doesn’t seem to mind. She stares Shaw down and holds on tighter, rolling her hips against Shaw’s ass with every thrust of her fingers. Her teeth close around Shaw’s earlobe and pull, tongue meeting wet skin in rough strokes that line up maddeningly with the gentle rub of her thumb against Shaw’s clit. Root’s hand must be cramping by now, not that she cares.

Shaw tumbles over the edge just as the train surges into their station, and Root strokes her through the aftershocks, pulling her hand away just as the doors open behind them. Root steps away to give Shaw some space, but the distance isn’t considerable when there are passengers fumbling for room at every turn. The car is a mess of activity with people coming and going around them.

Shaw straightens her legs and tries to slow her breathing enough to appear less like she’s just been thoroughly fucked in a crowd full of people. She reaches down and adjusts her underwear, grimacing as the wet material slides back into place.

The number, she has to watch the number. Shaw looks around and spots him fighting his way to the doors. He stumbles through ahead of them and Root takes her by the arm, leading her onto the platform.

“So,” Shaw finally manages, pausing to bask in the city breeze as they climb the steps back onto the street together, “you mind telling me why you had to lure me down into that hellhole with a fake number?”

Root grins, hands clasped together in front of her as she walks. Shaw drags her bottom lip between her teeth as her mind wanders back to where those hands have just been, but she blinks back the memory, forcing herself out of that particular gutter. Later, maybe.

“And since when does our mutual friend play along with your dirty fantasies?”

“You’re wrong, Sam. Tyler Prescott’s number came up for a reason.” Root insists.

Shaw looks at her expectantly.

“Yesterday morning, the twenty-three year old barista that his wife is having an affair with tried to deliver a switchblade with his regular coffee order. Luckily, I was in the area.” Root’s face shines with that familiar twisted amusement which is usually as annoying as it is attractive.

Standing on the sidewalk with her dress half-crumpled and a very noticeable hickey just below her right ear, Shaw is more attentive to the former.

“Next time, I’m pushing you under the train.”

“Oh, Sameen,” Root almost sings, “for you, I’d tie myself to the tracks.”


End file.
